Hungerblade

Part Two: The Important Assignments Are Always Vague

“Jacques Gardien, grand messenger to the Empire!” announced Cynewulf von Walberg, sergeant-at-arms of the Imperial Guard. His bellowing voice had been trained to fill an entire ballroom, and he took no care to modulate it for smaller chambers. The sergeant punctuated his cry with two stamps from the haft of his halberd. This was in turn followed by a cornet blast from his herald, a small man with a large mustache, clad in a uniform of sapphire brocade.

Gardien eased into the room, positioning himself so that his scabbarded sword faced away from the Emperor. Guntram stood on a pedestal, contemplating an easel, on which rested a canvas half again his height. A young lady of the court, whose name Jacques would be able to recall if only he were a more diligent gossip, lay several feet away. She lounged impishly on a divan, clad only in a few shimmers of diaphanous fabric. Guntram, charcoal in hand, was attempting to capture the ineluctable curve of her hips as they sloped toward her porcelain midriff. A bandy-legged man, his fine garments protected by a paint-spattered smock, hovered nearby, whispering instructions: “No, Your Imperial Majesty. You must not see the line. You must feel the line.” Guntram jabbed the charcoal stick at his art tutor in a gesture of dismissive annoyance, then paced to a side table covered with maps and documents. A mournful functionary pointed a finger at a piece of parchment; the Emperor read it briefly, scratched out a line here and there, and affixed his signature to it. The functionary then finished it with a drop of red wax and a press of the Imperial Doturi seal—a solar emblem emitting waves of enveloping light, the symbol of Reason Radiant. Guntram returned to his sketching.

Even while signing documents or practicing one of his many artistic pursuits, Guntram moved with a bantam’s strut. Though currently attired in a simple linen shirt and golden leggings, he carried himself as if balancing a heavy crown on his head. Guntram’s fine features, once considered pretty and callow, were aging into a mask of forbidding confidence. The Emperor’s most off-putting physical quality, at least in Jacques’ opinion, was the chameleonic changeability of his eyes. Depending on the light, they might appear to be blue, hazel, green, or the silver of a polished rapier.

Jacques remained still, hands clasped in front of him, until Guntram deigned to acknowledge him. He had, as a matter of idle curiosity, fallen into the habit of counting the seconds between his entrance to an audience, and the moment when Guntram pretended to have noticed him. This was one esoteric coded signal among many to consider when fulfilling his missions.

Among the secrets behind the rapid success of the Doturi since the plague ended was in the freedom it granted its roving legates. Though known as simply as messengers, Jacques and his six senior colleagues enjoyed considerable leeway in negotiating treaties, establishing foreign policies—even in declaring the occasional minor war. One could not risk the hides of ordinary state officials by asking them to travel the continent’s broken and bandit-infested roads. Hazardous times called for more adventurously capable corps of diplomats, such as one entrusted to carry the legendarily bloodthirsty Hungerblade.

Jacques had long ago learned, the most important assignments were always vague. His challenge in these meetings was, as always, two-fold: to read the parameters of his task in the pauses and evasions of the Emperor’s discourse, and to protect him from his own impetuous curiosity regarding Jacques’ dangerous enchanted weapon.

“The rest of you, out,” Guntram commanded. Artist and bureaucrat glided through the main door with quick and shuffling efficiency. Guntram’s model slipped on a silken robe, itself embroidered with the seal of Reason Radiant, and eased through a secret door into an inner chamber.

Guntram bounded from his platform to encircle Gardien in a vigorous bear hug. In the repertoire of His Majesty’s emotional displays, aggression and affection were not always well-delineated. He released Jacques, then feinted, grinning broadly, for the hilt of his sword.

Jacques grabbed his wrist, and deployed his best and humblest stutter. “Your Imperial Majesty...”

Guntram reddened, turned steely, then barked out a belly laugh, striding to a sideboard. He poured two goblets of purplish red wine, handing one to Jacques. Jacques swirled it to release the bouquet, breathed it in, then tasted. A fine vemien, though a touch pushy.

Jacques guessed at the region. “Monsen?”

The Emperor smiled broadly. “Sireau. I knew I could fool you. Delightful, no?”

Jacques nodded.

“Let me test you on another question. The North Coast League. What comes to mind?”

“One of our major mercantile leagues,” Gardien replied.

“The largest, in fact,” Guntram corrected. “I did not even know that.”

“My dealings with them have been peripheral at best. They control the trade routes along the Albearic. Skirmish occasionally with Thulean raiders.”

“Well they’re perhaps tired of freezing seas and ship-to-ship combat with musky dwarves. They hope to expand their sphere southwards. Very much southwards. One of their grandees, name of Wigandus, has developed some contacts for himself among the Romari. I don’t need to tell you how profitable an alliance with them would be—or how costly a war.”

Jacques took a careful sip of his wine. “You speak Wigandus’ name with skepticism.”

“Don’t mistake me. We need the mercantile leagues. As a fish breathes water, an empire survives through the inhalation and exhalation of money. Whether this particular league warrants our favor or a subtle squeezing on behalf of its competitors, is a fact to be determined. And this Wigandus, he seems to sweat butter. Yet if his claims of Romari connections prove their worth, we are capable of tolerating no end of coarseness. That sword. Surely if you withdraw it merely for the purposes of examination . . .“

Jacques raised his goblet. “To your admirable persistence, my liege. Which I am nonetheless duty-bound to rebuff.”

The Emperor stepped closer. “There must be some way of suspending the curse, just long enough to . . .”

Gardien shook his head. “If I remove it from its scabbard, with only two of us here, one of us will die. I assure you, Your Imperial Majesty, that either result would cast a pall on the rest of my day. Perhaps this fine vintage has inflated my self- importance, but . . .”

Guntram turned his back on him. Despite his lofty station, he was not above a little regal pouting. “But what?”

“Under normal circumstances, wouldn’t a preliminary trade mission warrant the services of a less senior messenger?”

“Wigandus requested a member of the Seven. He implied that anything less than that would constitute a snub of the entire North Coast League. Perhaps he reckons that your presence will smooth his way as he seeks trading partners—think of yourself as a walking and talking Imperial seal of approval.” The Emperor prowled over to the sideboard in search of figs.

“Yet . . .”

Guntram tested a knife for sharpness and plunged it into the heart of a juicy fig. “Yet I acquiesce to his demand in hopes that you will attend to a second mission, one more suited to your particular qualifications.” He cut the fig in two and paused to eat the red interiors of each half.

“I heard a funny story while out in the world,” said Jacques. “That the Romari Emperor, Nero, has been defanged by his Senate, and that a power struggle now ensues there.”

“Pesky things, legislatures. I don’t know how the Romari have lasted for so many centuries by allowing them. Oh yes, I do—by continually deposing and killing their Emperors.” He wiped his mouth and fingers with a square of bleached linen, then came toward Jacques. “Say you wish to cut a rope in two. If you draw the sword for that purpose, surely—“

Jacques clapped his hand over Hungerblade’s hilt. “It will still kill someone. So I always use a knife for cutting rope.”

Guntram circled him. “Perhaps you need to will it more strongly to heed your commands.”

“It doesn’t work that way, my liege. So the mission—am I be right in thinking that my real task is to see which senatorial faction holds the upper hand in Roma?”

“That would be the start of it.”

“And, if necessary and possible, to tilt the balance of power in a direction favorable to Dotur?”

Guntram seemed to nod. “There are others of the Seven available, Jacques, but it’s your way of seeing the world I seek here. Understand?”

Jacques didn’t, but figured that he would, eventually. Important missions and their vague instructions . . .

The Emperor continued: “Upon arrival in Romulus, you will meet with our messenger stationed there, Isabelle Darras. You know her?”

He did indeed know her, as the Emperor was unquestionably aware. Isabelle had been something of a protégé.

Guntram lunged suddenly for the blade. Jacques executed a perfect turn, catching the Emperor by the arm and folding it behind his back. His Majesty was in no pain, but would be if he resisted, even slightly.

“Thank you, my liege,” said Jacques, “For so skillfully testing my judgment.”

The Emperor broke into a schoolboy grin. “And your reflexes,” he added.

“And my reflexes,” agreed Jacques Gardien.

* * *

After a week’s travel, Jacques reached the town of Hreiburg, which sat on the southern spur of the Riba River, just above the much-feared Iron Wood. He stood on a wooden pier, watching as crates of provisions were loaded onto the Geistschritter, one of the empire’s coveted self-propelled barges. Although his upcoming journey down the Riba would not be his first on one of these conveyances, his awe at their magical ingenuity remained undimmed. A small cabal of ritualists recharged the engines every morning, allowing the barge to move up and down river with equal ease. There was no need for any type of fuel; however, the cabins of the ritualists took almost as much space. Over thirty feet long and constructed of bronze and alchemically-treated pine, the barge’s prow bore the solar emblem of Reason Radiant, rendered as an imposing shield of brass. Behind it streamed an array of colorful banners, in turn marking the barge’s allegiance to the empire, the local duchy, the enchanters who built it, and finally the transportation syndicate that commissioned and operated it. Sculpted nymphs and cherubs capered on the prow and side rails. Its engines, located at the stern, were encased in the forms of gleeful gargoyles. In their glinting eyes registered the Doturi hunger for wealth and territory. Jacques spied three obvious enchantments, but he was sure the most deadly ones worked into the barge’s design and embellishments would be hidden to the unaided eye.

Behind him, Jacques heard the hocking sound of a man pointedly clearing his voice. He turned, glanced down, and beheld a portly gentleman bedecked in the fur-lined hat and voluminous cloak of the northern Visigi provinces. His wide face and bulging eyes lent his features an unfortunate amphibian quality.

“Jacques Gardien?” he said, bowing in greeting. He pronounced the surname with three syllables.

The messenger bowed in turn. “And you must be Wigandus.”

“Yes, yes. I am most glad to see you. And nervous of this next leg of the journey. The näcken, they alarm me. Spirit creatures, hah? Have you ever encountered them? Ordinary bandits are one matter, but ghosts!”

Jacques realized that the man was accustomed to speaking continuously, and that, if he was to answer any of the questions posed to him, it was his job to interrupt.

“I have not met the näcken. But I’ll venture that most things described as ghosts turn out to be more solid than that.”

Wigandus trundled down the pier to more closely watch the dockside crane loading his trunks and crates. Two stevedores road atop the extensive traveling possessions, mutely testifying to the strength of the magical crane. “I thank you, and the North Coast League thanks you, for your interest in our dealings. Mere commercial arrangements are, I’m sure, a bore to you, compared to your usual perambulations and adventures and such. I’ve heard such exciting tales of your exploits, Jacques Gardien.”

“They’re all exaggerations.” Jacques’ pesky forelock fell down to annoy him. He batted it back in place, only to have it fall down again.

Behind him, Jacques heard a sharp intake of breath. He turned to see two familiar figures standing by the pier.

Wigandus clapped his hands together in a gesture of summoning. “Monsieur Gardien—or is it Lord Gardien?—allow me to introduce my bodyguards, Hemwold and Berchtold.”

Wigandus had employed the two brigands who’d tried to waylay Jacques on the road to Lichtstadt.

To be continued...